“No.”
“No?”
“I didn’t lose it,” Layla said, feeling strangely liberated.
Logan certainly wasn’t expecting her to say that. “What about your to-do list?”
“What about it?” Layla smiled.
“O-kay,” Logan said, sounding even more drunk than he had just a moment before. “What happened to the Layla Baxter I dated for two years? That girl would’ve made sure to finish her to-do list.”
“Yeah, well, maybe that girl isn’t me anymore . . . ,” Layla said. And she meant it too. She didn’t have to pretend. Not with her face. Not with her voice. Not with any of it. It was a glorious feeling. “And that’s okay,” she added.
“It is okay,” Logan said, smirking, “but it could be better . . .”
Before Layla could ask him what he meant, Logan pulled her in for a kiss.
It was big and hard and fast and slow all at the same time.
And all of a sudden all the old feelings came rushing back.
The attraction, the hormones, the love . . . all of it.
And Layla kissed him back just as hard and fast and slow as he kissed her. And even though she knew it really would be okay—way more than okay—if she didn’t complete her to-do list, she also couldn’t help but think, at least for a fleeting moment, that maybe she and Logan should just . . . do it. They could have sex on the beach—right here and now—and Layla could cross it off her to-do list, and that would be it.
But then, forever, that would be it.
And it simply wasn’t what Layla wanted . . .
. . . at least not right now.
And since right now was all there really was Layla pulled away from Logan, stopping his kisses.
“Aw, come on, Lay. Let me help you finish the to-do list. You’ll be happy. I’ll be happy . . .” He leaned in for another kiss, but Layla held up her finger, touching it to his lips. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing.” Layla smiled. “But we’re not doing this.”
“Oh, come on,” Logan said, sounding all drunk and harsh and mean. “You’re gonna miss your deadline.”
“Due date,” Layla corrected him with a laugh. She couldn’t help herself. She couldn’t be something she wasn’t either. And she certainly wasn’t going to do something she didn’t want to.
Layla walked away—back to the party and away from Logan—and she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that not doing her very last bullet point was actually the most important thing she’d done all year.
1 day until graduation . . .
LAYLA laid out her outfit for graduation on her bed.
It was hard to believe that it was all really happening in the morning.
HAPPENING, she texted The Chat as the doorbell rang.
“Lay-la!” her mom called from downstairs a few moments later. “Guess who’s here?” Layla had teased her mom for thinking that someone might show up to her front door without texting first, but that’s exactly what Logan had done.
“I figured you might tell me not to come over,” Logan explained as Layla closed the front door behind them and joined him outside. They sat down on the front steps. Logan had asked if she wanted to hang out on the trampoline one last time, but Layla had said no. This felt better. “I just wanted to say sorry . . . ”
“Doesn’t love mean never having to say you’re sorry?”
“Yeah, well, my mom thinks that’s the stupidest thing she’s ever heard, so . . .” Logan smiled, popping that signature dimple into his cheek. Now that he wasn’t dripping with alcohol, he looked and sounded like his old charming self again. They hadn’t been alone like this, really alone and just themselves together, since the day they broke up. Layla had missed him so much, but looking at him now, and smiling with him, she could feel that he wasn’t the same person from before.
And neither was she.
And Layla couldn’t help but think that was a good thing.
“I still love you to the moon and back,” Logan said as the beginning of his good-bye.
“I love you, too,” Layla said.
And she meant it.
But it was a different kind of love than she’d had for him before.
She knew that no matter how many times she’d fall in love in the future, there’d always be a small, quiet place in her heart that belonged only to Logan.
And that was okay.
More than okay.
In a way, Layla loved Logan more now than she ever had before. The good news, though—maybe the best news—was that she loved herself more.
Graduation Day . . .
. . . was as bittersweet as it gets.
Layla, Zoe, Alex, and Emma posed for pictures on the athletic field in their caps and gowns. At some point, as the cameras were flashing from every direction, Emma thought to whisper to the girls that the real reason she liked photographs so much was that they never changed, even when the people in them did. Everyone wanted to say that wasn’t true, that they wouldn’t change, or at least, if they did, they would still manage to grow and change in the same direction and fit this neatly together forever.
But they all knew that they couldn’t say that.
They knew it wasn’t the sort of thing you could promise.
Later, The Crew spent their graduation night at Disneyland. Twelve glorious, uninterrupted hours spent running around the happiest place on earth. No boys or other girls. No sex. No distractions. Just four best friends. And a hundred rides.
The last ride of the night (slash morning) turned out to be Splash Mountain. It was Zoe’s favorite, even though the big drop at the end scared her beyond words. It had actually been their first ride of the night too, but Zoe asked to ride it one more time. Layla loved the symmetry of that, and Alex and Emma were game, and so the girls ran back through the park for one last splash. As they crept up the conveyor belt in their fake plastic log, edging toward the largest drop, Layla, Alex, Zoe, and Emma all managed to have the very same thought at the very same time: The best part about this ride was that they were on it together. Honestly, that was the only thing that really mattered.
Just before the sun came up, the girls stood all together watching an actual fireworks display in the sky above the magic castle. Of course they couldn’t help but think about their own personal fireworks, the ones they’d set off by themselves or with the lucky people they’d let step inside. And the thoughts and feelings were enough to make them want to cry . . . but it all turned into laughter instead, because sometimes emotions are so close together it’s impossible not to feel them all at once.
Sometimes emotions know what you need even when you don’t.
This was it: the final, fleeting moment of high school.
All of it was bright and exploding, and then just as quickly fading away and finally disappearing into the sky. The girls felt each blast as if it were happening just for the four of them alone and no one else in the world. And the whole thing was already a memory—a forever-and-always kind of memory—before the fireworks display even ended. Maybe, honestly, before it had even really begun.
It was just that special.
This moment.
This magic.
This friendship.
This glorious time of their lives.
And they knew it couldn’t last forever, not really anyway, but they already felt like it was all a part of them, like it had burrowed into their hearts and melted into their minds and blurred—irrevocably blurred—into the depths of their souls.
This was it—and this was everything.
The end of the beginning.
The story started in a froyo shop, and that’s effectively where it ended, too.
Even though it didn’t officially—actually—happen for Layla until the very end of the summer, it was all set in motion right in the beginning on the first day after graduation. After the girls came home from Disneyland, and napped, The Crew decided the only thing they wanted was froyo. This meant breaking tradition and
showing up at The Bigg Chill on a Tuesday, which would’ve been fine, totally, absolutely fine, except for the first time all year—maybe even possibly for the first time ever—there was no peanut butter flavor option on the Bigg Chill menu.
There was always peanut butter.
And Layla always ordered it.
But now this time would have to be different.
Layla tried very hard to act like it wasn’t a big deal, but Bigg Chill Aaron could tell that it was a VERY big deal. He decided to be bold and recommend his favorite flavor instead: Honey Greek Yogurt. “It’s not for everyone,” he cautioned, “but I’m a big fan.” Layla tried it. She liked it. And ordered it without too much of a fuss.
Then, the girls sat at their usual table, in their usual corner, and laughed and ate too many rainbow sprinkles and were just happy to be together.
And that was it.
Alex had a week until she had to leave for Stanford and summer track practices. Emma’s one-way ticket to Southeast Asia was scheduled to leave two weeks after that. She’d officially decided to defer her freshman year of college and take a gap year. Emma was going to travel around the world, volunteering and working and taking pictures as she went. Zoe had to move into her dorm at the University of Michigan the second week of August. And Layla would start her freshman year at USC a week or so after that.
It was all happening.
That first day after graduation Layla had left The Bigg Chill feeling strangely alive. She felt invigorated, like the world was an open door, a book with only blank pages. Layla climbed into her car, stuck the key in the ignition . . .
. . . and simply got stuck.
She couldn’t drive. She could barely even move. She was petrified. She desperately wanted to be the kind of person who could speed off into the sunset and not look back, but that wasn’t Layla’s style. Yes, plans could change and she would survive. There was no peanut butter froyo, and she had lived to tell it. But she liked her lists and her systems and all of her due dates. Layla was unapologetically Layla, and she wasn’t going to stop being that now . . . but apparently and unfortunately, it felt like she wasn’t going to be able to go anywhere either.
And then.
Just when she thought she might actually get stuck sitting in the parking lot of The Bigg Chill forever, her phone buzzed.
It was a phone number she didn’t recognize, with a 267 area code.
Too soon to make a plan?
Layla looked up from her phone and saw Bigg Chill Aaron smiling at her through the wall of glass windows. Layla had given him her number just a few minutes earlier. She said she would love to hear from him sometime. And she meant it. The fact that he texted her almost immediately and used the word “plan” in his very first text message was an absolute dream.
Almost instantly Layla and Bigg Chill Aaron fell hard and fast, as text messages and timid smiles turned into full-fledged butterflies and endless make-out sessions. He insisted he wasn’t normally like this, all head over heels and all in and everything, but their connection was infectious and palpable, and there was no reason to fight it. Bigg Chill Aaron’s name was soon shortened to “Aaron,” because there was far too much discussion about him in The Chat to keep typing all three words over and over again. A few weeks later Aaron officially asked to be Layla’s boyfriend. A few weeks after that, they said “I love you.” And then, about two months after that very first text . . .
. . . it happened.
It wasn’t even an official date night. It was just an end of summer Sunday, a few days before Layla was scheduled to move into her USC dorm. Aaron texted Layla when he got off work at The Bigg Chill earlier than usual. They decided, last minute, to grab a quick dinner and see a movie. They shared fries. They held hands. They laughed at the big screen. And then, what began as just another seemingly endless make-out session, turned into the first time Layla never realized she always wanted.
It was passionate.
It was spontaneous.
It was sexy.
And loving.
And a little bit silly, too.
And, it all went down exactly sixty-nine days after high school graduation. The sexy numerological wink from the universe seemed almost too good to be true. But it wasn’t. It was very real. And absolutely right.
* * *
LAYLA Baxter lost her virginity in the backseat of her car.
To be honest, the sex pact wasn’t always part of the plan.
Even Layla could not have planned it better if she tried.
It was perfect.
All of it.
Mostly, because the girls did it all together.
Together together.
And that really was, without a doubt, the very best part.
Acknowledgments
You never forget your first time.
Trust me, I know.
And I’m already certain that I will never forget this first time either. The process of writing my first novel—spanning from the first blush of an idea, to this final, finished product—has been exhilarating, terrifying, humbling, and immensely rewarding. I am sincerely grateful—for all of it. And I know it would not have happened without the unwavering support of my family and friends who have held my hand—both literally and figuratively—every step of the way.
Thank you to everyone at Simon Pulse for championing the story of these four friends and their fireworks. Thank you, Mara Anastas, Liesa Abrams, Mary Marotta, Lucille Rettino, Carolyn Swerdloff, Tara Greico, Jennifer Romanello, Jodie Hockensmith, Christina Pecorale, Mandy Veloso, and Regina Flath. An extra-special thank-you to my editors, Jennifer Ung and Sarah McCabe, whose enthusiasm knows no bounds. Thank you for your fearlessness and your patience. Thank you for helping me find the rhythm and pace of the book. You are the best.
Thank you to my wonderful literary agent, Jess Regel, for helping me navigate this process and for being excited about Cherry from day one. Thank you you to my manager, Josh Turner McGuire, for helping me keep my head on straight. I don’t know what I’d do without you. And thank you to the rest of my team: Melissa Orton, Bryan Diperstein, and Tara Kole.
Thank you to my crew of early readers, fellow writers, “technical” consultants, and very best friends: Elyssa Caplan, Caroline Rothstein, Emma Sugerman, Aaron Karo, Jordan Ross, Harper Dill, Marissa Freeman, Melanie Mason, Sasha Salinger, Samantha Billett Rosenblum, Sara Sargent, Jessie Rosen, Emma Goidel, Ilana Caplan, Lindsay Katona, Jamie Epstein, John Krause, and Molly McCook. Thank you all for your notes and wisdom and insight. Thank you for your pep talks and the “you got this” text messages. Thank you for humoring me. And loving me. And reminding me to laugh and sleep and breathe. Cherry wouldn’t be what it is without you—and neither would I. An additional and endless thank-you to Elyssa, Caroline, and Emma—my girls and founding members of my tribe and executive committee—who went above and beyond the call of friendship and read every single draft of Cherry along the way. We really are the luckiest.
Thank you to my friends from high school. The ones whose pictures were taped to the walls of my bedroom. The ones I made mix CDs for. The ones I hung out with in Rugby Theater, or in my parents’ backyard, or the back seat of my car. And especially the ones I’ve eaten frozen yogurt with at The Bigg Chill. Thanks for being a formative part of the story of my life.
Thank you to my extended Rosin and Passman families—my relatives by blood and the ones we’ve adopted by choice. The regular days and the holidays and all the moments in between wouldn’t mean nearly as much if I couldn’t share them with all of you. I want to especially thank my 99-year-old grandmother, Helen Rosin, who I’ve had the privilege of updating about the Cherry writing process every step of the way. The first time I told her about the plot of the book I chose my words rather carefully, saying that it was a story about four friends during their senior year of high school. Then I added that it was “a little bit sexy.” Without missing a beat she replied, “That’s okay, people like that.” I’m so very glad she
said that. Hopefully, she was right.
Thank you to my Andy Grammer and “Ain’t It Fun” Pandora stations and all the songs that played on repeat. Thank you to all the baristas at my favorite Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf (10897 Pico Blvd.) for making the best vanilla lattes around. Thank you, Santiago Huckleberry scented Voluspa Candles. Thank you to Converse sneakers. And thank you, Pilot G2 pens (size 1mm), which I used as I wrote the entire first draft of Cherry by hand.
Thank you to my dog, Dodger, who sat by my side or at my feet or on the purple shag carpet on my office floor as I wrote almost every word of this book.
Thank you, Mom, Dad, Maxine, and Avery—for everything. I’m not sure what life would be like without the “lovies” group chat, but I wouldn’t want to live it any other way. I love you all to the moon and back—and so far beyond that too.
Thank you to my husband, Josh. I love you forever. Long story short: there were two ducks.
And finally, thank YOU for reading.
© 2016 by Claire Leahy
Lindsey Rosin is a screenwriter, playwright, producer, and director. A fourth-generation Los Angeles native, Lindsey lives in West LA—in close proximity to her favorite froyo spot, The Bigg Chill—along with her husband, Josh, and their adorable poodle-mix named Dodger. For more about Lindsey, please visit lindseyrosin.com and follow her on Twitter @lindseyrosin. Cherry is her debut novel.
Simon Pulse
Simon & Schuster, New York
Visit us at simonandschuster.com/teen
authors.simonandschuster.com/Lindsey-Rosin
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